The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  The two women smiled and held hands for a moment.

  “You know,” Miriam continued, “that Melanie has been itching to have Paul propose her for the Met board. She’s just dying to be a Somebody. I said hell, no to this dinner, but she called and left eleven dates on our machine! What were we supposed to do?”

  Cordelia smiled, feeling sorry for her neighbor: everyone truly detested her. And she wasn’t that bad. Maybe a little rough around the edges.

  “I’m sure it will be great,” said Cordelia, trying to put on a positive front. “Let’s just have fun,” she suggested as they made their way into the dining room.

  They all gathered around the table, and Melanie took on the role of conversation guide.

  “So,” she said, as everyone lifted their sterling spoons to the bowls of white truffle–infused mushroom soup, “so Cordelia, you and Morgan have been married for, like, ever and ever! Morgan just said twenty-eight years? How did you two meet?”

  Cordelia, even with only five people in company, felt suddenly as if a huge laser beam were being shone on her face, and she almost squinted from the glare. Her husband felt tightness in his neck as well. He knew Cordelia loathed being the center of attention, and he wanted desperately to protect her. But his fragile little bird was forced to venture out and give an answer to the beast shaking the tree.

  “Well,” she began, looking at Morgan for comfort, which he gave in the form of a supportive smile, “we were at the Cosmopolitan Club at Deirdre Pearce’s cotillion. I was seated at the same table as Morgan, next to Higby Sommers, but I never stopped staring at this one.” She blushed, looking down at her soup. She felt reckless, admitting that.

  The way her lashes flickered downward at that moment reminded Morgan of her bashful glances back then, in her strapless lilac gown with a flower in her hair.

  “But he seemed more interested in our hostess . . .”

  “Not true! I couldn’t even pick her out of a lineup.”

  “Well, I was under that impression. He danced the night away with her.”

  “Her older sister was very bossy. She kept coming over to me and telling me I was being terribly rude not to ask her sister,” explained Morgan apologetically.

  “Well, thankfully there was one dance that her father insisted on dancing with her. And for some reason—I believe Higby had gone to the bathroom . . .”

  “Or gone out back to have some scotch out of his flask . . .” interjected Morgan.

  “Whatever happened, Morgan and I were suddenly alone at the table. So Morgan slid over the seat next to me and we started talking . . .”

  “And I tried to gather the courage to ask her to dance,” Morgan added, smiling at his wife with nostalgic love into his voice.

  “And he finally did.” Cordelia paused, remembering. She could still picture the table decorations, taste the lemon meringue cake, smell the hyacinths draped around the patio in the yard.

  Morgan paused as well. Normally he would never have confessed all these intimate memories in front of a room full of people; it wasn’t his style. But he didn’t care. And it all came back to him now. He remembered that Chuckie Lyons had given him a ride and scratched his father’s car when he pulled in the driveway. And that he hadn’t gotten home until two and his nanny—yes, she was still around then—had been worried. And that he had thought Cordelia was the most perfect creature he had ever laid eyes on.

  Melanie stared at them. “And then what?” she interrupted.

  Cordelia and Morgan returned back to present day.

  “And I knew, that first time Morgan swirled me out and twirled me back in, that he would be my husband.” She smiled that enigmatic, wistful smile that had first melted him.

  Morgan’s heart ached with love for his wife. Her goodness was almost too much; his already mounting guilt was approaching epic, intolerable proportions.

  “Isn’t that just great!” squealed Melanie, clapping her hands together. She motioned to the waiters to clear the first course.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Lutz knew damn well how their host and hostess had met but wanted to see what they’d offer as answer. See how they liked the spotlight.

  “How about you two?” The corners of Miriam’s mouth went up mischievously, but she was trumped.

  “Oh, we met while Arty was traveling. We were seated next to each other in first class,” she said. Melanie knew Miriam knew the truth. But the Korns had been asked this before, and they knew how to play it.

  “Really? Where were you off to?” asked Miriam.

  “Florida,” said Arthur quickly. He knew this was Melanie’s least favorite topic. Well, that and her past. “How about you two? How’d ya meet?”

  The Lutzes explained rather didactically how they had been set up on a blind date by a mutual friend who told each about the other and how they were both from “good” (read: loaded) families. They conveyed little emotion.

  As the filet was served, the talk turned to the world of finance.

  “I am just so sad for poor Ben Holden,” said Miriam. “To be pushed out of his own company!”

  “It’s terrible,” said Paul. “He built that from the ground up.”

  “But I mean, the poor dear! He just seems so sad!” added Miriam.

  “It’s awful,” agreed Melanie.

  “Whattaya talking about?” interjected Arthur. “The guy raked the company through the coals, screwed the shareholders, and is leaving with a billion bucks in his pocket. He should be happy he’s not in prison!”

  Miriam looked stricken. Who was this odious man? “How can you say that? He’s a huge contributor to New York Hospital!”

  “What I think Arty means . . .” began Melanie, worried. Don’t fuck it up! It was going so well.

  “So what?” Arthur said with his mouth full. “He gave away money that wasn’t his to give. Hell, I can do that! Here, Cordelia, would ya like some of Paul Lutz’s three hundred million?” Arthur burst into laughter.

  Cordelia smiled politely. Melanie watched Miriam’s eyes narrow and tried in vain to diffuse the situation. “Arty, I think they mean that he was generous and the shareholders should have some mercy.”

  “I don’t buy that, Mel! Come on, the guy’s a crook! He was skimming off the top! He oughta go to jail.”

  Melanie cursed herself. She should have told Arty to abstain from red wine. It made him too loquacious. He was embarrassing her! He should not offer opinions at any time.

  “You know, I think Arthur’s right,” said Morgan. “People should be held accountable. That’s what we lack in our society. Accountability.”

  Morgan became Melanie’s personal hero. “True,” she murmured. Miriam, meanwhile, raised her eyebrows yet again.

  “See, I knew I liked you, Vance. We’re on the same team.”

  Morgan felt emboldened. Perhaps it was the wine. “Yes, we are. People need to pay for their sins. You have to stand up and be a man. The time has come. If Ben Holden cheated the shareholders, then he’s out! That’s all there is to it. What’s that saying that the African-American lawyer always said?”

  “If the glove don’t fit, acquit?” offered Melanie, unsure.

  “Oh, yes. No. Maybe it wasn’t the African-American lawyer. Hmmm . . .” thought Morgan aloud, as five sets of eyes egged him on. “Oh, yes! If you can’t do the crime, no, no. If you can’t do the time, don’t commit the crime!” Morgan leaned back with satisfaction.

  “Thatta boy!” said Arthur, raising his glass. “Here, here.”

  Melanie raised her glass eagerly, and Miriam and Paul followed halfheartedly.

  Cordelia stared into her glass, and then took a very large swig of the wine. “Why, Morgan,” she said finally, “I never knew you felt that way.” And with that, she finished her glass.

  After the magnificent five-course menu, the three couples retreated into the living room, where Miriam’s eyes grazed every single painting and objet d’art in the joint, estimating its value. She was an auctionaholic and had memorized
every hammer price for years. She raised a knowing eyebrow and gave a quiet nod of recognition when she came upon a piece she knew the Korns had acquired despite escalated bids. And with each piece, her inner accountant’s calculator tabulated the grand total, as the mental white receipts rolled on and on until hitting the floor. Melanie tried to give her a tour, but Miriam brushed her off and instead embarked on her own private excursion of the apartment, her mental data processor ready. She liked to assess in private.

  It was tasteful, you had to give Melanie that. She had been coached well. That was one thing she at least had the smarts about, to hire a decorator who knows furniture. Too many of them just fill the house up with reproductions and then when it’s estate sale time the heirs are left with loads of fakes that may have fit well in an obscure corner of a room but are ultimately worth nada. Miriam reluctantly approved of the wall art in the study and the decor of Melanie’s office, but she still searched for a fatal flaw. Finally she was in luck: in the library she spied a pair of blue and white Ming Dynasty vases on the mahogany mantel. She immediately returned to the living room and approached Melanie quietly as the others were conversing. She took Melanie’s hand.

  “Darling Melanie,” she said. “Come here.”

  “Is everything okay?” asked Melanie. Miriam Lutz unnerved her. She had a supercilious air that was impenetrable, and she was one of those people who seemed to relish finding faults in others. Miriam didn’t deign to answer her hostess and instead dragged her to the library and stopped in front of the vases. She sighed deeply and pointed.

  “Do me a favor,” she implored.

  “A favor?” asked Melanie. “Sure,” she said hesitantly. “What is it?”

  “It’s about these vases,” she said, pausing dramatically.

  “What?” asked Melanie. She had no idea what Miriam meant.

  Miriam sighed deeply. “They really do not belong in this room,” Miriam pronounced. “They ought to be in the living room. It’s a much more suitable color palette for them.”

  At first Melanie felt humiliated, as if she had been slapped. How could she be so stupid? These vases—in here—it was just so stupid. And then she thought, Wait a second . . . who the hell are you? Suddenly, Melanie felt her blood boiling. What was Miriam saying? Had she never heard of ANN LECONEY? Who the the hell was she to march in and give decorating tips! Just because she was some housewares doyenne didn’t mean she knew shit about collecting. What a sense of entitlement! Here she was, sauntering in and being served a caviar and white truffle dinner that was five hundred dollars a head, and she was doling out advice? Melanie was working herself into a frothy frenzy and was about to blow her lid. But instead she took a deep breath and counted to three. With “Mississippi” between the numbers. She took a final exhalation.

  “Thank you for that thought,” she said finally. “Oh! Just look at the time! I must put Arthur to bed. He turns into a pumpkin at midnight!”

  Melanie tried to chuckle politely, but her heart wasn’t in it. Miriam smiled at her while thinking that finally she could get out of there. Despite its size and lavish decor, the Korns’ apartment still felt to Miriam like one of those coffins that Arthur hawked in Queens.

  When they returned to the room, Cordelia and Morgan were squeezed tightly into the settee, looking like honeymooners. Paul sat alone on a fauteuil, and Arthur was on the couch, regaling the guests with death stories.

  “We should be off,” said Miriam, with pretend sorrow. Paul shot up like a cannonball.

  “Yup, great supper, Arthur,” he said, patting Arthur on the back.

  “Wow, I suppose it is late,” said Morgan, glancing at his watch.

  “This was such fun,” said Cordelia with sincerity. It was. It was nice to break out of their boring little social circle every now and then. Shake it up a little.

  “I hadda great time,” said Arthur, walking them to the door. “And Vance, if that person you mentioned does die, I got the perfect coffin for ya,” said Arthur.

  “What’s that all about?” asked Melanie.

  “Oh, just someone I know,” said Morgan. “Someone on the brink of death.”

  “Come on, sweetie, time for bed,” said Cordelia.

  Mr. Guffey appeared out of nowhere with coats for the Lutzes. There was a flurry of thank-yous and kisses good night and finally the two couples left. When Mr. Guffey closed the door behind them and returned to the kitchen, Melanie and Arthur looked at each other and gave a shared sigh of relief.

  “I think it went well. What do you think?” asked Melanie.

  “Fun,” said Arthur, ripping off his tie. “You know, those Vances are not as boring as I thought. They’re actually nice.”

  “I agree. Really down to earth. I never would have expected that.”

  “I bet Vance would be fun to go to a ball game with.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that about Ben Holden . . .” began Melanie.

  “Don’t start, sweetie,” advised Arthur. “It went well. Be happy.”

  “You’re right. It went well. I think they loved us.”

  “Here we are, hobnobbing with witty and fashionable society! Who’da thought?”

  And with that they went to bed. Melanie was excited. The dinner party was a coup, and except for Miriam’s snide little comments, everything had worked out well. The meal was impressive, of course the apartment was impressive, and, actually, the Vances were nice. Melanie was tired and ready for sleep. Tomorrow was a big day. That night her dreams would be filled with something better than sugar plum fairies—the sugar-candy land of Fame. And tomorrow, after much delay, the profile that would launch her as a bona fide society maven was hitting the newsstands. Fuck you, Miriam Lutz! After tomorrow’s New York Observer article, she and the rest of her Met trustees would be salivating to get Melanie on their board!

  chapter 37

  The stenciled elevator doors opened with a bell into the grand lobby of 741 Park Avenue and Melanie ran out, eyes darting in all directions. Last night had really been a success, and today was to be her ultimate triumph: the New York Observer featuring her interview would be released.

  Olivia Weston walked into the lobby, holding a copy of the Observer, and looked at her neighbor with an amused glance before stepping into the elevator.

  “Oh good, it’s out!” yelped Melanie, thrilled. Finally Olivia would see what it’s like to read press about someone else, for a change. She could already tell Olivia was looking at her differently. Now she’d definitely want to be friends.

  Emma Cockpurse was plopped on her usual perch, the lobby’s slate blue overstuffed velvet couch, and the doormen were trying to coax her to go back to her apartment because she had come down in only her late husband’s blue bathrobe. Melanie waited impatiently for Eddie and Tom, but they clearly had their hands full. Finally, kooky Mrs. Cockpurse got back in the elevator, escorted by Tom, and Melanie was free to inquire about the day’s mail. Olivia seemed to have brought her paper in from the outside.

  “So, Tom . . .”

  “Eddie.”

  “Right. Is the mail in yet?”

  “Nope, not just yet.”

  “Oh, well—I’ll get it at the vending machine.”

  “It’s cold out there, ma’am.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. It’s worth it,” said Melanie, who was nearly knocked over by the huge gust of wind that came in when they opened the door. She bravely stepped out and buttoned her cashmere sweater. She folded her arms and hugged herself against the cold as she battled the wind to get to the corner.

  Tom came back down and asked Eddie where Mrs. Korn had gone.

  “She’s in for some surprise when she sees that newspaper!” said Tom, laughing.

  Eddie whipped out his already dog-eared copy of the Observer from under his coat. “Tell me about it. Quite a scandal.”

  At the corner, Melanie nervously fed quarters into the slot, opened the box and ripped out the top copy of the peach-colored newspaper.

  Shrieks.
The trees down Park Avenue bristled. Horrified pigeons flew from their roost. In a three-block radius, every human heard her cry, plus some pets. A huge caricature of Melanie in a full stewardess uniform holding wads of fanned-out money was emblazoned on the front cover, above the fold. In a state of shock, she began to hyperventilate, then gathered herself up enough to look both ways and take out the rest of the papers in the machine. She walked furiously at Mach ten speed and marched into her lobby. She carried the stack of thirty papers past her mischievously amused doormen and couldn’t even acknowledge them, as her head vibrated with the rattle of mortification, vaulting her into a black realm of surreal panic. This could not be happening.

  Second to the births of their children, the time Joan and Wendy were enjoying was the happiest of their lives. It was as if rays of light shone down on them that morning, and they were falling over themselves thanking their lucky press stars; it was too good to be true. In their corner booth perch at Daniel, they counted the copies of the Observer around the room. Wendy spied twenty-six so far, which meant twenty-six jaws on the floor. Everyone was agog.

  “Oh! Listen to this one!” said Joan, rereading Crispin’s piece for the seventeenth time, selecting the greatest nuggets from Korndom. “Quote: ‘I want the best tables at events . . .’ and then two seconds later she calls herself, and I quote, ‘the next Brooke Astor.’ Can you believe this?”

  “Imagine what Brooke would say.”

  “Listen to this,” said Joan, practically licking her lips. “‘Mrs. Korn counts herself in the glittering pantheon that includes Olivia Weston and the late Mrs. John F. Kennedy, Jr. She talks often of Olivia, whom she refers to as “such a sweetie” and keeps track of how recently she was invited to Ms. Weston’s home. Although Ms. Weston refused comment, her inner circle insists that she loathes the coffin heiress.’ That’s just humiliating! What does Arthur think?”

  “Can you believe she refers to him as her little Jewish cowboy? Gagsville.”

  “Billy Crispin is genius. Listen to this line: ‘The more that Melanie Korn tries to claw her way up the social ladder, the farther down she slides. Her critics say she is her own worst enemy; her lack of tact, unwavering determination, and notoriously uncouth remarks make people physically recoil.’ ”